CHAPTER XIX
OLD LETTERS
The week before Terence O'Brien's trial Watts had gone for one of his rare visits to Eleanor Ledyard's home in its low valley of the Ramapos. He found Pudge's home a tangle of lovely flowers, rich in smears of gaudy color, and the long waves of canterbury bells bowed to him in many tints as he paused at the white gate. Pudge, himself, ran down the paved garden path, a small turtle in one hand, a little willow whistle in the other. Both of these were proudly exhibited to his friend; also, mysterious news, the guinea pigs had now several little guinea pigs of their own and the doings of these piebald sacks of fur and ears were rehearsed. Watts listened with interest.
"Mother's up in the garret," said Pudge. "She's looking at letters—they make her cry."
Watts frowned. "They do, do they?"
"Yes, some more," the little fellow heaved a great sigh and took hold of Watts' trouser leg. "I'm glad you've come; when you come Mother doesn't cry as much; sometimes she looks in the glass and smiles."
"H'm," said the lawyer. "I say, Pudge, do you ever look in the glass?"
Pudge nodded. "When I'm playing Jack the Giant Killer, first I'm Jack and then I look in the glass; and then I'm the two-headed giant and then I look in the glass and try to see two heads on me."